


Little Spoon

by CooperCooperGo



Series: Imagine ClintCoulson Prompt Fills [7]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Badass Agent Coulson could use a couple of days off, Clint's shitty childhood, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Time, Huddling For Warmth, M/M, Nightmares, SHIELD mission, Sharing a Bed, Trope time!, pre-avengers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-21
Updated: 2017-07-21
Packaged: 2018-12-04 21:05:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11563338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CooperCooperGo/pseuds/CooperCooperGo
Summary: Coming off a two-week mission in the middle of nowhere northern Afghanistan, where SHIELD had spent all day chasing very bad men from one isolated village to another in 38°C heat, and all night running airborne patrols scanning the foothills for off-world tech, what Agent Clint Barton could really use is a good night's sleep.





	Little Spoon

**Author's Note:**

> For the Imagine Clint/Coulson prompt: Imagine Clint or Phil calms the other down when they wake up gasping or screaming, soothing them by stroking their hair and forehead until they fall asleep in their arms (p.s. They're not together yet/they haven't acknowledged their feelings for each other).

Clint’s brother Barney gasped and thrashed against the covers of his bunk. Soft cries, mumbled pleas, a broken ‘no’; all the things they couldn’t say, all the things they weren’t allowed to feel during the day, slipped through his older brother’s loosened grip at night.

You had to be careful when it was dark and quiet and the nightmares got at Barney. The black, angry pool that oozed and gibbered just beneath the fragile mask their father pasted over their little midwestern family was so close to the surface then. Clint thought that maybe one night Barney would just open his fists and it would all gush out and drown them all.

Barney whimpered. Kicked at the blankets.

Clint fumbled with his own blankets, untangling himself from the warm nest of his bunk. He got blearily to his feet, staggered across the small room to Barney’s bed, the cold floor stinging his bare feet. He didn’t wanna, it was cold and he was so tired. But if Barney’s cries woke up dad…

Clumsy with fatigue, Clint groped at his brother’s bunk, finally found the edge of the covers and slipped underneath.

If he was quiet, if he just lay still and breathed, then usually Barn’ would settle down again. Sometimes he wouldn’t even wake up. It was better that way, made it easier in the morning.

Clint snuggled down into the warmth of the blankets, got as close to his brother as he could without touching him. Barney didn't like to be touched. But even though he'd never, ever admit it, Clint thought Barney liked that he was close.

"Barton… wha’ are you…" The words were slurred, heavy with exhaustion. Barney stocked shelves at the hardware store after school. Sometimes Pearson kept him working way past suppertime. It wasn’t like Barney was on the books at twelve years old anyway, who was gonna know. Then Barn’ got up early to help Clint with his paper route before school. It was a lot.

“Shh, Barn', shh, dad'll hear. Go backtah sleep,” Clint said though a yawn, helplessly wide. So tired.

"Barton…" A low rumbly voice, not really awake, raspy with fatigue.

"S'okay, s'okay 'm here, shh." Clint patted Barney’s arm, an awkward comfort, and slid back into sleep.

 

***

 

Clint blinked his eyes open to a snuffly, gentle snore. It was dark. He was warm. And so very tired. And someone's nose was pressed into his neck, forehead against his cheek. He didn't remember bringing anyone home last night. Wait, no, that was… wait, what?

His senses expanded sluggishly, taking in the numbing cold beyond the warmth of the blankets, the rush and moan of wind against the outside walls. There was a faint pop and crackle from a tiny banked fire, coals glowing red in the darkness of a small room. The dusty smell of mud-brick. Afghanistan. Mission over. Perimeter secure. Relax.

His eyes slid closed, attention drifting back to the steady, comforting heat from the solid body pressed hard against him. Nice. Really nice. That was—

Clint’s eyes snapped open. His boss was curled into his chest like a child, hands tucked under his chin, fingers balled loosely against Clint's collarbone. Stone-cold Agent Coulson, Fury's right hand man, was folded into the curve of Clint’s body like he belonged there. Coulson was deeply, defenselessly asleep. Some part of Clint, somewhere distant under a haze of exhaustion, was screaming ‘What the hell???’ over and over again. The rest of Clint, coming off a two-week mission in the middle of nowhere northern Afghanistan, where SHIELD had spent all day chasing very bad men from one isolated village to another in 38°C heat, and all night running airborne patrols scanning the foothills for off-world tech, could fucking care less. It was warm and he was comfortable and he’d woken up to weirder things, honestly.

And also if Coulson came to right now he’d maybe, probably, accidentally kill him, so—

Agent Coulson. He had watched him coordinate and command over two dozen agents for this mission and, as far as Clint could tell, had barely slept at all, getting by on coffee and stimulants and willpower. And after it was all over and the targets had been eliminated, and everyone else was heading home for some R&R, the local village elders had insisted that the 'headman' and the 'hero shooter’ who'd taken out the warlord that had terrorized their kin for years stay one more day to be feasted by the grateful villagers.

Clint had seen the careful rise and fall of Coulson's chest as he suppressed a sigh, thanking the elders for the honor in flawless Pashto, the skin under his eyes tight, blue with shadows, a barely-there tremor in the hands clasped politely behind his back.

They'd put them up in the village guest house. More of a hut now, really, even carefully cleaned, though it had once been fancy. There was a hole high up in the rafters where part of the second floor had collapsed from a mortar-strike and taken the roof with it. It let the moonlight in. Somewhere far distant, a rumble of thunder rolled over the mountains of the Eastern Hindu Kush bordering the desert valley, the endless wind-swept plains of the old Silk Road. Crosswind prowled like a beast outside the heavy mud-brick walls but it couldn’t get in.

The man in his arms shifted slightly, sighed in his sleep. Clint tightened his embrace, drifting through flashes of memory: looking up to see Coulson silhouetted against an endless, empty, blue sky, dark somber suit, radio pressed to his ear, the savage sun, a dry, dusty wind lifting his hair. Clint being prodded awake by Thompson for his turn at watch one night out in the foothills, looking over to see Coulson's face up-lit by the soft glow of a laptop, the same gentle, reassuring, tap-tapping of keys that he’d fallen asleep to. Coulson nodding at him across the mess-tent the day he’d taken that 3000m kill-shot, a wordless acknowledgement of a job well-done, his eyes proud and warm.

Coulson slept like the dead; boneless, heavy and solid on Clint's shoulder, his hair soft against his cheek. Clint gave a mental shrug, fumbled the quilt up under Coulson's chin and closed his eyes.

 

***

 

Clint blinked awake. Mostly awake. It was dark but the air had that thin expectant quality that meant dawn wasn't far away. The air in the small room was cuttingly cold and there was a lingering, smokey smell that told him there had been a fire, though it was clearly out now. He should be freezing, despite the blankets, but a deep, satisfying warmth surrounded him, so cozy, so—

He was the little spoon. A steady, living, heat stretched luxuriously against his back like the best blanket ever. Clint snuggled back into that inviting warmth helplessly, his body reacting instinctively to the rich comfort of the hard body behind him. The man at his back had thrown a possessive arm across his chest, his deep, gentle breathing ghosting the back of Clint’s neck. God, he had missed this, all those years on the run, struggling to survive. Just the simple pleasure of staying in one place long enough to wake up next to someone like this… someone… he didn’t remember…

Clint wiggled a little, feeling out the alignment of their bodies. The two of them slotted together to make a perfect fit. One of the man’s legs, big thigh muscle hard against the back of Clint's own, had pinned his leg. He was being held gently but inescapably, a subtle arch in his upper back that pushed his hips forward. But he didn't feel trapped, he felt safe. Wanted. And, Clint wasn't gonna stand on ceremony here, the guy’s groin snugged tightly into his lower back and ass and that felt great too. Warm and good and a little prickle of heat. Maybe later…when he wasn’t so tired…

Clint slipped back into sleep.

 

***

 

Clint rolled over, kicked off the quilt, and stretched. A long luxurious stretch that warmed every muscle. A couple of vertebra in his spine popped satisfyingly. He let out a big, gusty, breath and stared up at the rafters, his body filled with the suffused contentment of an excellent night’s sleep. 

Morning sunlight streamed in through the hole in the roof. Motes of dust swirled lazily, sparkling in the pale golden light. The air was still cool but the harsh cold of the previous night was receding. Clint sighed. Man, he was gonna have to get one of these beds, or maybe it was the quilt, or the desert air, he wasn’t sure what it was but this was seriously the best night of sleep he'd had in forever. He turned his head to the other bunk to see if his boss was awake yet.

The other bed was empty.

And…wait, that was his jacket slung over the bedpost. And that was definitely his rucksack piled messily on top of the small chest at the foot of it. That was his bunk. So…whuh…

Clint stared back up at the ceiling, dread creeping up his spine like ice-water. He sifted desperately though his memories of last night. He remembered falling into his bunk, so tired he couldn’t think straight. How had he gotten into Coulson’s bed?? There was a confused dream about being in Iowa as a kid, and his brother Barney. And, like, a paper route? And he remembered something about his boss—was it a dream or was he just thinking—about how Coulson worked so hard and how he deserved a break, and also how he looked so totally sexy in those suits, and how he always listened when Clint had something to say in mission briefings unlike that douchebag Harris, or, really anyone else. And then there was a sense-memory of a long, lean, hard body pressed against him and how that felt…mmm…and Coulson and—

Clint jerked the quilt up over his crotch and gritted his teeth. _What the hell._

Someone cleared their throat politely.

Clint slowly rolled over. Agent Coulson was sitting at a small table next to the hearth, neatly sipping coffee out of a tiny earthenware cup. He was back in his summer suit, every line of him crisp and precise. One of those curvy Arab coffee pots sat on the table, pale steam twisting into the air, the smell of bitter roast and cardamom. Coulson looked…better. Less like the walking cadaver Clint remembered from last night. His face was smoother, less shadowy, and the grey smudges under his eyes were gone.

The morning sun slanted through one of the cracked, dusty, panes of glass still left in the high, small, windows of the little house. It brightened one side of Coulson’s face, a diffuse glow that brought color to his skin. His eyes were blue. Huh. Clint hadn’t really noticed that before.

 _Dammit!_ He clutched the quilt.

Coulson’s lips quirked up in one of his trademark barely-there smiles. Clint had seen that almost-smile before. He had no idea what it meant. It could be anything from ‘You will report to medical right now, Mr Barton, or I will have you sedated,’ to ’That’s the last cheese danish. Are you certain you don’t want it? No? Alright, thanks.’ That smile wasn’t helping. Clint could feel a blush pushing its way up his neck like lava.

"Err, I…you…uh…" he blurted.

Coulson regarded him patiently, waiting. He was such an asshole, Clint thought, his cheeks on fire. He was…huh…he was exactly Clint's kind of asshole, actually. And Clint had just ruined any chance he had of doing anything about that for, like, forever. _Great job, Barton, you idiot_.

“Would you like some coffee?” Coulson gestured to the pot. “It’s still hot.” He turned back to his open laptop, either to give Clint some privacy getting out of bed or maybe just because he was tired of watching him squirm. 

Clint rolled to his feet, skipped across the floor, shucked on his DCUs and jammed his feet into his boots.

He slowed down to take the other chair at the table. Accepted the cup Coulson poured for him. God, Barton, stop being such a dweeb, he thought. Use your words. He sighed.

“Sorry, sir, I’m not sure what…I didn’t mean to…”

Coulson waved a hand. "It's alright. I had a nightmare. I understand you thought I was your brother. At first.”

Of course he knew about Clint’s shitty childhood. Of course he’d read Clint’s file. Coulson had read everyone’s file. Wait, at first? What did that—

Coulson continued, his face growing serious. “If anything I should apologize to you. For disturbing you,” he said, “and, possibly, for sexual harassment. If you feel the need to file—”

“What?” Clint jerked upright in his chair. “No! Are you kidding? No! That’s not—it wasn’t—it was okay! I _liked_ sleeping with you!”

Clint blinked.

“I mean…!”

Coulson tilted his head minutely to the left.

“Or! Er! I’m not saying…! Well, I am saying…but not like….I mean, unless you did too…um!” Clint coasted to a stop, propped his elbows on the table and dropped his face into his hands. When Coulson didn’t say anything else he ventured a quick peek out from behind his fingers.

“Are you mad?”

“No, I’m not mad, Barton. A bit chagrinned that I seem to have spent my last night in Afghanistan cuddling my sniper. I _am_ sorry about that.” Coulson looked down at his hands, took a breath. “Sometimes the nightmares…” 

He didn’t look like he was going to say anything else. Clint dropped his hands. “I get it, sir,” he said. Clint understood nightmares. “It’s really okay. And—it wasn’t all bad, was it? I mean, not the nightmare part but the…other part?”

“No, it wasn’t,” Coulson said. “It was most restful sleep I've had in—" he looked away, sighed, "I can't remember how long."

Clint grinned. “Me too!”

They looked at one another. Coulson had on what Sitwell called 'The Analysis Face.' His eyes were thoughtful. Intense. A shock of sense-memory rushed through Clint again—the heat of him at his back, his scent, how his body had felt under Clint’s hands. The possessive arm across his chest.

He shivered, eyes going wide. Hoped Coulson hadn't seen that. Knew he had. Clint caught his lip between his teeth, felt the blush smouldering on his neck.

Coulson’s gaze sharpened. His eyes dropped to Clint’s lips, then back up again. His appraising look was a little predatory.

And the barely-there smile was back. But this time Clint could kinda tell—he hoped anyway—that he knew what it meant.

END


End file.
